I’ve been on an unintentional writing hiatus for a while now. Between the rib pain that won’t seem to go away, and life otherwise just catching up with me after a long spell of nothing going right, I think the creative well just sort of dried up for a while.
No big deal.
No, really. I mean it.
Creative pursuits require a certain amount of creative energy, and unlike most forms of energy, creative energy just doesn’t follow the rules of science. It’s not measurable and objective. It isn’t predictable and stable. Sometimes it hits you out of the blue and throws you into a project so hard you lose track of everything else around you. You get behind on the bills because you forgot to pay them. You run late for work every day for a week because you were trying to get those few more words down. Your spouse and children begin to think you’ve forgotten they exist. McDonald’s cooks dinner at your house more often than you do.
Other times, without a reason at all, it just sort of dries up. You go through a drought. A lot of artists, and writers in particular, greet these droughts with angst and wailing and gnashing of teeth. I suspect that for many people, it hurts to suddenly be without the thing that makes us special, unique, and talented. It’s like being abandoned by a lover or snubbed by a friend. We fear that we will never again catch the muse. We fear that we’ve used up all the magic.
My theory on the whole situation is… eh. Let it ride.
Whatever it was inside me that brought me to the place where I am, where I consider myself to be a creative person and a writer… it’s still inside me. It’s still part of who I am. Maybe it just needs a break, like sometimes my maternal nature needs a break when my son is driving me up a wall. Like sometimes my nursing nature needed a break despite how fulfilling and enjoyable I found my job to be. My creative nature needs a break, too, and unlike the rest of my nature, my creative side is unwilling to function on the modern society timetable that says breaks should happen on vacation days, weekends, and when my son goes to Grandma’s house.
It’ll take as much time as it takes, I guess. It always has. And when that creative nature has had its break and the well is full again, I’ll get that idea that won’t let me go. My husband and son will wonder if I’ve forgotten them, and love me anyway because that’s what makes them so perfect for me. My mail will go unopened for weeks on end. And I’ll produce another story that sweeps me away.
Until then, please enjoy the new Snippets page, where I’ll be posting little chunks of some of the stories I’ve worked on or imagined over the years.
